Queerness in Comics

How LGBTQ+ stories evolved from hidden subtext to center stage

 

Introduction

Comics have always been a part of how we imagine the world—through heroes and villains, fantasy and reality, bold colors and quiet panels. But for a long time, queer readers had to read between the lines. Representation was sparse, and when it did exist, it was often coded, tragic, or pushed to the margins.

Like with many other forms of media, queerness in comics didn’t arrive all at once. It showed up in hints and half-truths, in side characters and subtext. But over time, queer stories moved from the background into the spotlight. What was once unsaid is now being told—openly, honestly, and across a wide range of genres, styles, and publishers.

This post looks back at that evolution. From early resistance and quiet rebellion to bold storytelling in both indie and mainstream spaces, queer comics have carved out a space of their own—and it’s still growing.

 

From Subtext to Spotlight

Queerness has always existed in comics—but for much of the 20th century, you had to read between the lines to find it. LGBTQ+ themes and characters were actively suppressed, not just socially but structurally. When the Comics Code Authority (CCA) was established in 1954, it didn’t just ban depictions of violence or sex. It explicitly forbade any mention of homosexuality in mainstream comics. That ban stayed in effect until 1989.

The result was a landscape where queerness could only exist in hints and shadows. A character might be flamboyant or emotionally intense. Two same-gender characters might share a strangely intimate bond. But none of it was allowed to be named. Instead, LGBTQ+ readers learned to find meaning in subtext—in body language, coded dialogue, and the spaces between panels.

The CCA didn’t just target queerness. It came down on anything that could be read as vulgar or suggestive: language, romance, moral complexity, even scenes that took place in bedrooms. This forced comic writers and artists to get creative. One of my favorite examples comes from a Wolverine comic. In the middle of a romantic scene, just as things are clearly escalating, the panels quietly pan away... to a lampshade. Nothing graphic, nothing explicit—just enough to let the reader fill in the blanks.

Queer creators, of course, didn’t stop telling their stories. They just took them elsewhere. In the 1970s and '80s, LGBTQ themes started showing up in underground comix—independently published, often autobiographical works that tackled identity, politics, and the realities of queer life head-on. These weren’t polished superhero stories. They were raw, personal, and deeply needed.

The shift toward open inclusion in mainstream comics came much later, starting in the 1990s and gaining momentum in the 2000s and beyond. Today, queer characters can lead titles, fall in love, come out, and simply exist without being hidden or punished. But it didn’t happen overnight—and it didn’t happen by accident.

One of the first graphic novels to push back against erasure was Stuck Rubber Baby by Howard Cruse. Published in 1995, it’s a semi-autobiographical story set during the Civil Rights era, and it doesn’t hold back. It explores sexuality, repression, race, and fear in a deeply human way. It isn’t just a coming-out story. It’s a full portrait of what it means to live at the intersection of queerness and resistance.

 

Indie and Webcomic Rebellion

While mainstream comics were still bound by the restrictions of the Comics Code and the expectations of broad appeal, queer creators were already carving out space for themselves elsewhere.

Starting in the 1970s and gaining real momentum in the '80s and '90s, LGBTQ artists turned to underground comix, zines, and self-published works to tell the kinds of stories the mainstream wouldn’t touch. These comics didn’t just include queer characters—they centered them. They were messy, political, personal, angry, joyful, and full of life in ways that the sanitized pages of big publishers couldn’t allow.

These weren’t always polished works, and they didn’t have the reach of Marvel or DC. But they mattered. They built community. They spoke directly to readers who had been left out of the story. In the margins, queer comics found a voice—and a readership.

As the internet grew, webcomics took that spirit even further. Anyone with a story and a scanner (or later, just a drawing tablet and a Tumblr account) could publish their work and find an audience. Webcomics became a haven for queer creators across the spectrum, especially those whose identities or experiences were still being sidelined in traditional media—trans, nonbinary, aromantic, disabled, fat, neurodivergent.

In webcomics, the rules changed. Stories could be slow and emotional, or weird and experimental. Characters could question their identity, explore new language, or just live out queer joy. For many readers, webcomics were the first time they saw someone like themselves, not in a tragic arc or as a sidekick, but as the center of the story.

Books like Fun Home by Alison Bechdel—originally rooted in the world of alternative comics—brought queer autobiography into the literary spotlight. The Deep & Dark Blue by Niki Smith, a middle-grade fantasy graphic novel featuring a trans protagonist, showed how even younger audiences could be invited into these stories without shame or hesitation.

Indie comics and webcomics didn’t just fill a gap left by the mainstream. They reshaped the whole landscape, proving that queer stories weren’t niche—they were essential.

 

Mainstream Shifts

By the time the Comics Code Authority lost its grip in the early 2000s, the world of comics had already begun to change. Indie publishers, webcomics, and graphic memoirs had pushed the boundaries of what stories could be told—and who got to tell them. Eventually, even the big publishers began to follow suit.

Mainstream companies like Marvel, DC, and Image started including LGBTQ+ characters more openly. Sometimes it was through new characters introduced as queer from the start. Other times, it meant revisiting long-established heroes and reframing their identities in a new light.

In 1992, Marvel’s Alpha Flight #106 made headlines when Northstar became one of the first openly gay superheroes in mainstream American comics. The moment was groundbreaking, even if it wasn’t given much space to breathe at the time. Queer inclusion in superhero comics remained sporadic and often surface-level for years afterward.

That began to change more meaningfully in the 2010s and beyond. DC reintroduced Batwoman as an out lesbian in Batwoman: Elegy, giving her depth, agency, and a central role in the Bat-family. Marvel’s Young Avengers leaned all the way into queerness, featuring multiple LGBTQ+ leads whose identities and relationships were never framed as side plots—they were simply part of the story.

More recently, several major legacy characters have come out—each one marking a shift in how publishers handle queerness in long-running franchises.

In 2012, Alan Scott, the original Green Lantern from DC’s Golden Age, was reimagined as gay in the Earth 2 series. This version of Alan Scott was younger, grounded in a new continuity, and engaged to a man at the start of the story. His queerness wasn’t just a footnote—it was central to his emotional arc. And while the character had existed since the 1940s, this new version helped affirm that even legacy heroes could reflect a more inclusive world.

In 2015, Marvel followed with Bobby Drake (Iceman), one of the original X-Men. The reveal came when a younger, time-displaced Bobby is confronted by Jean Grey, who reads his mind and tells him she knows he’s gay. The storyline drew both praise and criticism—some appreciated the visibility, while others took issue with the outing itself and the lack of buildup. Still, it marked a major milestone: a founding member of the X-Men had come out.

Then in 2021, DC made headlines again when Tim Drake (Robin) came out as bisexual in Batman: Urban Legends. Unlike the Iceman storyline, Tim’s self-discovery unfolded gradually, with him realizing his feelings for a close male friend named Bernard. The arc was handled with care and nuance, giving readers the kind of emotional grounding that’s often been missing in earlier attempts at queer representation.

Image Comics, meanwhile, continued pushing boundaries with works like The Wicked + The Divine, where queerness was built into the DNA of the story. Gender, identity, and mythology were all in conversation—and queerness was never a side note.

Of course, mainstream representation is still a work in progress. Queer characters are sometimes included for optics rather than impact. Storylines can be quietly dropped or watered down. And LGBTQ+ creators still face barriers that go unseen behind the page.

But despite the missteps, the shift is real. Queer characters now take up space across publishers and genres. They lead, they struggle, they grow. They don’t need to be decoded anymore. They just get to be.

 

Why It Matters

Representation isn’t just about checking a box. It’s about recognition. It’s about possibility.

For queer readers—especially those who didn’t grow up seeing themselves in the stories they loved—finding a character who reflects your identity can be powerful in ways that are hard to explain. Sometimes it’s a big moment: a character saying the thing you’ve never said out loud. Other times, it’s quieter. A single panel. A familiar feeling. A relationship that just makes sense.

Comics have always been a place where people go to imagine who they could be. Heroes fly, time bends, worlds end and restart. But for a long time, queerness wasn’t part of that vision. We were hidden, coded, sidelined, or erased.

That’s changed. Not everywhere, and not perfectly. But the change is real—and it’s personal.

I’ll be honest, I have a particular soft spot for Batman and Robin. More specifically, Dick Grayson. Whether he’s showing up as Nightwing or mentoring younger heroes, there’s something about his steady presence and emotional growth that’s always resonated with me. His open support of both Jon Kent and Tim Drake in recent storylines has only deepened that connection. It’s a subtle but meaningful kind of allyship—the kind that doesn’t make a big speech, just shows up and does the right thing.

Moments like that stand alongside bigger gestures, like the Pride Month variant covers released by both DC and Marvel in recent years. Those covers aren’t just symbolic. They’re an acknowledgment—on comic shelves, in full color—that queer stories and queer creators belong in this space, and always have.

Seeing queer characters—messy, powerful, flawed, joyful, complex—just exist on the page is something that still matters. It matters to new readers who are just beginning to explore who they are. It matters to longtime fans who finally feel like they’re not on the outside looking in. And it matters to creators who want to tell stories that feel true to them.

Queer comics are more than just good stories. They’re a reminder that we belong in every world. Even the ones we have to imagine ourselves into first.

 

Share Your Story

Whether you grew up scouring panels for scraps of recognition or just recently found a character who felt like home, your story matters too. I’d love to know—what queer comic moment stayed with you? What character made you feel seen?

Leave a comment, tag us on social media, or explore our growing collection of queer comics and graphic novels. You might just find your next favorite panel.